The Sapphire Brooch Katherine Logan (best beach reads TXT) 📖

Powell made a face as if he had heard wrong, and his voice held an even angrier edge when he said, “Step aside.”

When Braham didn’t move, Powell jerked up a knife and slashed, cutting Braham’s forehead. Then, continuing in a downward arc, he stabbed it deeply into Braham’s shoulder. Braham dropped his gun, swaying slightly. Powell threw a glancing blow to Braham’s temple. Braham staggered backward and fell to his knees with the hot trickle of blood dripping into his eyes. In spite of the screaming pain in his head and shoulder, Braham refused to lose focus.

Frederick threw himself at Powell, who pulled a revolver and placed it against the secretary’s son’s head, immediately pulling the trigger. The gun misfired. Powell muttered an oath and smashed the revolver handle against Frederick’s skull.

The door opened, and the nurse appeared. Powell stabbed the limping soldier repeatedly in his rush toward the bed.

Fanny screamed. “Don’t kill him.”

Wobbly and bleeding, Braham clutched the stair railing and hauled to his feet. Blood streamed down his face and shoulder. He swiped his arm across his forehead but couldn’t staunch the flow. Bracing his injured right shoulder against the doorjamb, and grasping his revolver in his left hand, he took aim at Powell. Blood partly obscured his vision.

Fanny moved into the line of fire. Both Powell and Fanny appeared as wavy figures in a macabre scene. In the best of times, Braham could hit a target with his left hand, but this was closer to the worst of times. With limited vision and two innocent victims in an unpredictable welter, he wouldn’t take the risk.

Gus, the secretary’s other son, rushed past him into the room and grabbed Powell from behind. Powell threw a blow to his rib cage then slashed wildly, catching him on the head. Gus dropped, clutching his face.

Fanny threw herself across her father’s body to protect him, and once again put herself in Braham’s line of fire. Powell jumped onto the bed and raised the knife, aiming for the secretary.

Braham lunged toward the assassin, grabbing Powell’s knife-wielding arm. Using the broken revolver he still held in his other hand, Powell clubbed Braham’s head. Braham reeled, head spinning, and his world pulsed into black. If he passed out, the secretary would die. He lifted his hand and fired blindly at Powell. The explosion sundered the room. Powell lifted his arm and stabbed the secretary, then kicked Braham in the chest before fleeing the room.

Woozy, Braham swayed as he climbed to his feet again, bleeding from shoulder and head. He stumbled after Powell, who rushed headlong down the stairs, where he continued the carnage by stabbing Emerick Hansell, a State Department messenger standing guard at the foot of the staircase.

Braham wiped the blood from his eyes and, barely able to see, fired again, hitting the window next to the door and shattering the glass. By the time he made it down the stairs and out the front door, Powell was galloping off. Braham planted his feet, braced his left arm against a lamppost, and pulled the trigger, missing the escaping assassin one last time.

Braham ripped off the bottom of his shirt and tied it around his forehead. Returning to the secretary’s bedroom, he found Seward’s body on the floor with Fanny kneeling in a pool of blood next to him.

“Oh my God. Father’s dead, he’s dead.”

The vicious slash, stopped finally by the metal brace, had opened Seward’s cheek, and the skin hung in a flap, exposing his teeth and fractured jawbone. Braham put his hand to Seward’s neck and felt a rapid, thready pulse. The secretary still lived.

“I am not dead; send for a doctor, send for the police, close the house,” the secretary mumbled.

Relieved to know Seward yet survived, Braham said, “I’m afraid for the president. I’m going to the theater.”

Both Gus and Frederick climbed to their feet, slipping in the pools of blood.

Braham grabbed a towel off the washstand, rammed it into his coat, and pressed it against the shoulder, then he ripped a long strip from a clean sheet and made a sling for his arm. Satisfied he’d done the best he could for his injuries, he stumbled back down the stairs, leaving another set of bloody footprints.

He had to get to Ford’s Theatre to protect the president. His right arm was numb and blood oozed down his coat sleeve and dripped off the tips of his fingers. It took three attempts to mount his horse. The reins were slippery from his blood-coated hand, and his bloody boot kept slipping out of the stirrups. If he could remain in the saddle and reach the theater, he could warn someone. He galloped away like a crazed man, crossing the unpaved, wheel-gouged, muddy streets. Several times he almost fell off, but managed to keep his seat, grasping the reins and mane as he raced five blocks east and two blocks south to Ford’s Theatre.

As Braham galloped down F Street, he could see an unruly, frenzied mob gathering at the corner of Tenth Street. He slid off his horse and pushed his way through the crush of humanity, staggering toward the front of Ford’s Theatre.

“Guards, clear the passage. Guards, clear the passage.” Bearers emerged from the vestibule with a small force of guards, shoving gawkers aside. A septet of men supported Lincoln, two at his shoulders, and others supporting his head, torso, pelvis, and legs. They carried him from the lobby, out the doors, and across the stone stairs. The crowd gasped at the sight.

“For God’s sake, take him to the White House to die,” someone yelled from the crowd.

Braham pushed his way through the half-insane mob and faced Doctor Leale, the army surgeon attending Lincoln. With eyes as steady as he could manage, Braham drew his sword from its scabbard and said, “Surgeon, give me yer commands, and I’ll see they’re obeyed.”

Yelling over the din, Leale said, “Take him straight across the street and into the nearest house.”

Braham fought his way forward,